


Far as the Curse Is Found

by gaolcrowofmandos (imperialhuxness)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (dramatic irony what dramatic irony), Family, Family Politics, Gen, Mulled Wine & Sarcasm, Politics, Tolkien Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhuxness/pseuds/gaolcrowofmandos
Summary: A gift for hennethgalad on tumblr, as part of Tolkien Secret Santa 2017 -- enjoy!During the Siege of Angband, Fingolfin holds a council on military strategy. However, there's still time to relax....“I’ve got,” said Finrod, grinning, gesturing with his wine glass, “the widest realm of the lot of you, and I still managed to get the worst seat in this room. I swear, the snow’s all but blowing in through the window here, the glass is so thin.”





	Far as the Curse Is Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hennethgalad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/gifts).



> A very Merry Christmas to hennethgalad! 
> 
> And yes, the title is from the third verse of 'Joy to the World'--hope it's not too terribly misappropriated ;)

_"Now Fingolfin, King of the North, and High King of the Noldor, seeing that his people were become numerous and strong…pondered once more an assault upon Angband…._ _But because the land was fair and their kingdoms wide, most of the Noldor were content with things as they were, trusting them to last, and slow to begin an assault in which they must surely perish, whether in victory or defeat."_

- _The Silmarillion_ , Chapter 18, ‘Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin’

* * *

Finrod swung his feet onto the ottoman in front of him, crossing his ankles with an imperious air. He shivered.

“I’ve got,” he said, grinning, gesturing with his wine glass, “the widest realm of the lot of you, and I still managed to get the worst seat in this room. I swear, the snow’s all but blowing in through the window here, the glass is so thin.”

Behind him, gusts of white flakes whirled against the apparently flimsy pane, blurring the view of Ered Wethrin as a grey twilight sank about the icy peaks. A fire blazed on the hearth before the six kinsmen in the parlor (five vassals and their king).

“May I point out,” said Fingon, smirking, “that you somehow also managed to get the _southernmost_ realm?” He laughed. “It’s about time you took your share of stiff limbs and excessive imbibement of mulled wine.” Beside him on the sofa, Maedhros snorted.

“Mulled wine?” Finrod echoed with mock indignance. “Is that what you do all winter, sit around drinking, waiting for the snow to melt?”

In the armchair across from him, Angrod raised his own glass, its burgundy liquid sloshing perilously. “Four month vacation!” He beamed.

“Six, when Moringotto’s feeling particularly beneficent.” Aegnor clinked his brother’s glass, drank deep.

“So, what you’re telling me-” Finrod assumed a theatrical frown. “-is that I’ve gotten the short end of the stick here…”

“Oh, really now?” Fingon lifted an eyebrow.

Finrod shrugged, halfway winked. “All I’m saying is that I seem to be the only one in this family who actually runs a year-round operation.” He took a sip of his wine.

Angrod lifted the pitcher from the table beside him and refilled his glass. “If you’d wanted a week or so off, Findarato, all you had to do was invite us south and host this council yourself…”

“As if I’d want my wastrel cousins holed up in-” Finrod coughed. “Sorry, I mean, I’d hate to rob Káno and Maitimo of _their_ excuse to hole up for...a month or so.”

“Whatever might you be implying, cousin,” said Maedhros, deadpan. He held his empty glass in Angrod’s direction, shook it slightly in petition.

Angrod lifted the pitcher and leaned over (Fingon’s lap, which lay between himself and Maedhros) to comply.

“However,” put in Fingon, “were your implication _at all_ valid, you should know we’d be happy to spend a week of the annual hole-up somewhere we can actually feel each other’s fingers.” He took a long but delicate sip, which left a thin red line on his upper lip. “You know, for a change.”

Finrod chuckled. “ _Well_ ,” he said, “perhaps something can be arranged for next winter. I mean, I’d hate to have to boot the resident bats from my extra tunnels for a fortnight, but…”

“Meh, they’ll live.” Aegnor flung a careless wrist in the air.

“Probably…” Finrod admitted with mock chagrin, but couldn’t quite hold back a smile. “Who knows about _us_ , though, especially if…” He trailed off.

“If _what_ ,” Aegnor said. With a little imagination, it was almost - almost - a challenge.

In the brief beat that followed, the shadow of the day’s earlier debate returned.

Perhaps it was just the fade of the ashen sky to black with the oncoming night, but the room felt colder, the air somehow oppressive. Over their early dinner and into the drinks afterward, the matter -- and the rift -- at hand had been companionably masked by the veneer of shared memories and of banter, but the chimera of war could be heard sharpening its claws in the silences between.

Finrod pursed his lips. _Ignore it as we might, it won’t go away._ Taking a draught, a breath, and a risk, he broached the topic with a smile. “If... Uncle Nolo doesn’t let us take that cider away from him. Whatever’s in it is really giving him some, ah, _creative_ ideas…”

“Apples,” said Fingolfin. He had been sitting mostly taciturn in the armchair nearest the fire. Temperate as usual, he’d refused the wine.

“Sure, Father.” Fingon gave him a teasing wink. “Whatever it is, it really gives the impression of liquid stupidit- I mean, courage.”

Fingolfin cleared his throat, started, “Káno, I-”

Angrod, however, broke in. “Whatever it is,” he said, a little too coolly, “you’d better have some if you ever want this war to end.”

Fingon pursed his lips for a moment, eyes hardening, but beside him Maedhros laughed.

“Tremendous,” Maedhros said, “I’m sure Moringotto will take us quite seriously when we stagger up to his doorstep.” Finrod smirked, but Fingon looked a bit wistful.

“Better than if he comes knocking on ours, only to catch us hungover.” Angrod gave a half-smile of his own and quirked an eyebrow, then stared back down into his glass and swirled the wine.

“But at least when he does come knocking,” Fingon replied, “we’ll have caroused as long as we could, right?” He squeezed Maedhros’ thigh and grinned.

“Unlike you three _wastrels_ -” Fingolfin’s eyes sparkled as he looked at Finrod, with his feet up, and the scarcely separable tangle of Fingon and Maedhros. “-I’m not entirely certain _carousing_ is our job here…”

“Not _carousing_ carousing, Father--” Fingon rolled his eyes, held up a finger, and drained his glass. “--just- shouldn’t we at least _try_ to enjoy what time we have?”

“Why hasten the inevitable?” Finrod tilted his chin toward Fingolfin. The wrought leather band on Finrod’s wrist -- like a dead thing amid his vibrant finery -- caught Fingolfin’s eye. The _tengwar_ embossed on it were messy - Mannish - a reminder that Finrod did not speak only for himself any more than Fingon did.

The High King turned toward Angrod and Aegnor, raised an articulate eyebrow. They had both paused drinking; Aegnor’s gaze also lingered on the leather bracelet. Fingolfin glanced at his feet, then slowly shook his head, a defeated smile curving his lips. _Oh, let them live,_ he thought. _Come off it, Nolo. Let them live._

“Very well,” Fingolfin sighed, standing up with his empty cider glass. “The only certainty I’ll rail against is the headache you’ll all have tomorrow.” He looked at the ceiling with a helpless and dramatic air.

“Long live the King,” said Finrod, amiably, and lifted his glass toward his uncle. He drained it and glanced out the window. It was now too dark to see the snow.


End file.
